


Easter, 1545

by orphan_account



Category: The Tudors
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be Catholic was difficult, to be Catholic and a woman was harder yet. Sometimes allies come in odd shapes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easter, 1545

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jena Bartley (jenab)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenab/gifts).



Easter, 1545

Mary Tudor, Princess of the Realm smoothed her fingers over the delicate chatelain at her waist as she listened to the abomination that was the service this early Sunday morning. The words she had grown up with, that her mother had never abandoned were not being spoken at Mass. Instead it was the awful text her father's advisors and cardinals had drawn up. They were even reciting things in English, may God forgive them for straying from the true faith. She dared not even mouth the proper Latin under her breath, for she had many enemies at court, some that showed the face of a friend.

One row behind her Charles Brandon's breathing grew unsteady and then a soft snore that barely carried beyond her pew fell between the spaces in recited verse.

She ducked her head down, hiding the curl of her lips as best she could. The Duke had always been painfully honest about his interest or lack thereof in attending church. He'd said at Christmas Court, in the hearing of her father, blessed may he be and live and rule for many years, that faith was a private matter and being on his knees was saved for his king and his wife. Father had replied that one's mistress should be on that list as well and the subject had changed to whichever lady had caught their eyes. At the time she had gone between horror at his statement and a bitter resentment that men had a freedom to think as they wish when a woman did not.

Later, she had caught a glimpse of His Grace tucking away a rosary in a fold of his doublet. He had been leaving a small side chapel that at one point had been dedicated to the most Sainted Mary, mother of Jesus. He'd raised an eyebrow at her before bowing deeply. He glanced left and right before taking a half step back into shadow, crossing himself and murmuring the sign of the cross. "Blessings of the season to you, Lady Mary. I've said a word or two in honor of your mother at this time when we honor the mother of Jesus. Presumptuous of me, I know, but that is hardly a surprise to you."

She'd lifted her chin. "Indeed, Master Brandon."

He gave her another sketchy bow and with an ironic smile, left her standing alone in the drafty hallway.

Another snore, louder than the first one drew her back from the memory. She let her breviary fall to the floor, the smack of the wooden covers loud on the stone and disturbing the rushes. She was rewarded with a snort, then a tired sigh.

This time she let the smile curl up the corner of her lips. He might be her ally in the true Faith but if she had to sit through this abomination, so did he.


End file.
